Hope
by elospock
Summary: How it could have happened between Charles and Erik. Mostly based on the events of XMFC and XMDOFP, though with a slashy twist, But heading further than where the last movie left us. Rated M for alcohol and drug abuse, violence, noncon, bullying, language, and sexual content. UPDATE MARCH 5: I changed some things in the first two chapters, so you might want to read them again!
1. Chapter 1: Hurt

Notes

So. I have this playlist, you know. Of songs that make me cry, nostalgic, happy, sappy, sad, angry. Pretty sure we all have one.

And lately, they kinda made me think a lot of Cherik. A lot.

So I decided to do a fic based on this (self) prompt: I would write a cherik fic, though each chapter would have to be inspired by a song (some more loosely than others). This will not be a collection of one-shots, though. It will be a many-chaptered fic.

So here is the result! Hope you'll enjoy it. :)

This is my first attempt at Cherik! So, please, let me know what you think! Any constructive comment will be most welcome. :) Live long and prosper!

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything in this universe, neither the characters, nor the settings or even some dialogues. I intend to make no profit out of this, as it is done out of pure love for this wonderful universe. I do not own any of the songs that inspired this work either. Any resemblance to any other story, song, poem, movie, real people or anything else is fortuitous and was by no mean intended as plagiarism or fraud.

* * *

Chapter 1. Hurt

_I hurt myself today_  
_To see if I still feel_  
_I focus on the pain_  
_The only thing that's real_  
_The needle tears a hole_  
_The old familiar sting_  
_Try to kill it all away_  
_But I remember everything_

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend_  
_Everyone I know goes away_  
_In the end_  
_And you could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_  
_I will make you hurt_

\- Nine Inch Nails

* * *

Charles chugged back yet another scotch. It was his third already.

The numbness was slowly creeping up his fingers, his chest, his throat.

As he sat on his worn-out couch, he let his body reel in the alcohol-induced sluggishness. The familiar torpidity was seizing his limbs, one after the other. He felt as though nothing could get to him, as though his body no longer existed. He relished this feeling – or lack thereof. It made him feel as though he was in limbo, as though everything around him was not real. He was floating amidst it all, his carnal envelope defying the laws of physics and nature. It made him feel less alive – and less dead.

His mind, however, remained impervious to it.

No matter how many drinks he had, the alcohol never really got to his head. That was unfortunate – but Charles was a stubborn man. He was trying all the same.

Every night. Every morning.

He didn't even read anymore. He didn't do anything anymore. It was too painful.

Maybe someday, his mind would finally snap. He almost hoped it would.

At first, he had tried to live on. He had tried to run the school and pretend that everything was going to be alright. He had almost started believing it, at some point.

But then, as an ineluctable law of nature, even the best-laid schemes tend to go awry, no matter how hard one tries, no matter how fiercely one wants them to work.

And things only went down from then on.

The war started, that _bloody_ Vietnam War. Things went dire in an instant. Everybody was drafted, teachers and students alike. Charles had tried very hard to do something about all this. For obvious reasons, he was not recruited, of course.

He had attended a few pro-peace protests. He had stopped, however, when the protests became too violent. Bitterly, he watched, as humans were helplessly tearing themselves apart. He feared for his fellow mutants, who could very well become the next enemy.

He really hoped against everything that Erik would not be proven right. Not out of pride; Charles didn't care if _he _was wrong anymore, no matter what people thought.

He just truly didn't want anybody hurt, human or mutant. And even though he did believe in the inner goodness of mankind, a part of him knew that some people would always enjoy watching the world burn. He would admit it, though only reluctantly – but even he knew it was true. And that made Erik not completely wrong, on all accounts.

To be fair, mutants were not _necessarily_ better, when you considered what Shaw had tried to do. Or how Erik was attempting to deal with the problem.

_Erik_.

Charles poured himself another drink. He closed his eyes as he drank it, quickly, without enjoying or tasting the liquid anymore. It hurt his throat, but at least, it made him focus away from _him_.

Charles could not blame Erik for his beliefs: he knew that the man had seen more than his fair share of suffering and hate. He understood why Erik was angry, why he could not believe in the goodness of men; yet, Charles couldn't help but condemn the ways of the Brotherhood. Hate and violence would only ever generate more hate, violence and suffering. They would _never _be a solution. It was a simple observation, though more often than not disregarded.

How Erik could possibly be missing the fact that he was creating more martyrs, more victims, more angry men and women that would seek revenge – just like Shaw did to him – Charles did not understand. No matter what had happened or what decisions he had made, Erik _was_ an intelligent, cultivated, and passionate man.

He was certainly not as evil and corrupted as Shaw or the Nazis. And yet, he was perpetrating the same circle of violence. Who knew how many innocent orphans were already left behind while he was seeking justice and freedom…

It made Charles incredibly sad to think of it. Because he knew, deep down, that Erik was a good man. He knew that he wanted what was good for his people, just like Charles. That was one of the reasons that made it forever impossible for Charles to hate the man.

They just had very different ways of achieving the same goal.

And Charles believed in mercy and compassion. He used to, anyway. Acceptance would not happen overnight. It would take time, years, decades. Hell, homosexuality was still considered a disease and unnatural by most of the world. But Charles was – had been – hopeful; because things _had_ started changing. Women were fighting for their rights. Black people were now allowed to attend university.

Of course, prejudices were still strong, and the United States were far from having a black or female president. But, in a few decades, who knew what could happen?

The Vietnam War had changed many things. It had made Charles incredibly bitter and angry. But deep down, he knew killing was not – and would never be – an option.

The day that Erik had been condemned and imprisoned for JFK's murder, despair had threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Charles had been there, in the courtroom, when the sentence had been pronounced. He still could not believe that Erik would have done such a thing, _he could not_ – and yet, evidence was against him. He hadn't even tried to read Erik's thoughts, even though he was very tempted. He had learned his lesson the hard way the last time, after all.

The facts were there. The bullet had curved. The bullet had been metal. Erik was on the footage.

Therefore, Erik had killed the president.

And Charles had lost the last remnants of his hope in a better future. He had lost his illusions. He had lost his purpose.

And he had almost lost his mind.

* * *

At first, it had been unbearable. When Hank had come up with the serum that would allow him to walk, he tried it, not really because he wanted to, but there was little else to do. And being able to walk would at least improve his independence and mobility, Hank urged him, desperate to help in any way he could.

Surprisingly, the first injection had been bliss. Slowly, the despair, the voices, the thoughts – they had all dimmed, until becoming almost completely silent. Only his own remained, but that he could bear.

Feverishly, he had asked for the second dose. Hank had been a bit suspicious at first, troubled by the sudden change of behaviour. Charles had reassured him saying that he just felt much better because of the treatment; and indeed, the serum was working.

It was a white lie, really, because not entirely false. Charles did feel better, just not because he was able to walk again.

But soon, Hank had noticed something was amiss.

Really, Charles had not been walking all that much, even though he could – which Hank would have expected. The Professor was always either sleeping or sitting. It was odd, and at best out of character.

When Hank had realised how the serum was affecting Charles's abilities, he had tried to stop him from using it. But Charles didn't want to.

The young scientist had then threatened him to stop making it altogether.

Charles had begged him not to. He had actually begged Hank.

He was not that far gone in the addiction – yet – that he did not notice how it was affecting his rationality. He _had_ tried going cold turkey for a day.

It had not been pretty.

In a fit of despair and pain, he had induced irrational fear in the nearby boroughs. Hank had been completely knocked out by the sheer force of the mental blow, being closest to its source.

Reluctantly, even Hank had to admit that Charles's unleashed telepathy had to be controlled, somehow. He had tried to find another way, but it was taking time. So he had continued to produce the serum. Though, he had made Charles promise to let him monitor the doses and keep them low.

Charles had agreed.

For the first time – maybe ever – he could no longer hear the thoughts of others in his head. It was paradise, and yet, soothing in a very uncanny way. Charles was so used to his ability that being deprived of it was oddly disquieting.

It was like suddenly losing his sight: when he woke up, he still expected to see, at times, and couldn't understand that he really wasn't. Wouldn't. But he didn't care, really.

It was a welcome blindness, even: like becoming blind shortly after being allowed to see the most beautiful colours – and losing them. It was easier not to see than being forever confronted to a world without brightness. What did it matter, to be able to see, when everything around you was painfully grey?

Losing Erik had had that effect on him; the helmet – that bloody and cursed thing – had had that effect on him. When the man had put it on, it was as though the most magnificent colours had gone from Charles's world. Not to see can be infinitely more bearable than noticing that everything everywhere has a dull quality, as though lacking brilliance.

It was an immense relief.

Everything – _everyone_ – else was so unbearably dull.

So when Hank had found that miraculous serum, Charles had not just been happy because he could walk again. Being able to walk now was quite a useless perk. And he really had not been happy to start using the serum on a daily basis. He hated depending of something or somebody.

But he was just so very relieved, finally, to be completely blind. The price was high, but then, so was his ability's.

The thing is – he could still think, and worse: remember. And that still hurt, no matter how deaf and isolated he was from the rest of the world. After all, a blind man can still remember the many-coloured sun. And miss it.

Hence the drinking. Night after night. Day after day. Numb was the only state he wished to be in anymore.

Maybe someday, he would forget.

Maybe someday, the liquor would sink in for good. Maybe if he kept hurting himself, he would stop hurting altogether.

As he swallowed quickly his fifth glass, though, Charles knew it would not be today.

He could still feel the pain. He felt it in his bones.

Charles focused on it. It was the only thing still anchoring him to this world.

His scotch bottle was empty now, but he didn't really care at this point. Slowly, with some difficulty, he walked towards his desk.

The syringe was lying there, straight, shining, clean, undisturbed. Ironically, everything he was not brave enough to be anymore.

For he had lost hope.

The needle tore a hole in his left arm. The sting was familiar now, and twistedly, almost welcome. Almost.

As the serum quickly ran through his veins and numbed his growing awareness of the world, he threw away the glass syringe as hard as he could. He wished he could shoot it directly to his head, and try to kill it all away.

For he still remembered everything. And it still hurt as much as it ever did.

_Erik. Oh, Erik._

* * *

_Charles…_

Erik woke up with a start. It had been a most vivid dream. At first, he couldn't even remember where he was or why. Everything was white. And Charles…

Odd. He didn't remember ever being in a white room in Westchester. Maybe he had been moved because he was ill or something.

Slowly, he turned on his back, rubbing his forehead to clear the fog that was clouding his mind. He felt as though he had slept for days.

When he opened his eyes, the familiar outline of the glass ceiling brought him back to reality. Abruptly.

He _had_ been sleeping for days, then. He dimly remembered having an uncontrollable fit of rage, and then – darkness. And intense dreams.

As he sat on his bed, he suddenly felt it.

The lack of metal. The gargantuan void in his very core.

He tried to reach as far as he could – nothing. Everything around him was made out of plastic and concrete. Everything around him was ugly, dead and colourless.

And it had been for years now.

Nauseous, Erik put his face in his hands, trying to calm the panic that was threatening to overflow.

He was so sick of it all. The pain, the void, the absence – it had never become easier, with the years.

In fact, every time he woke up, it was harder to go on.

If he was honest with himself, thought, the metal was not the only thing sorely missing from his life.

Erik stood up brusquely. It was never good to think of Charles when he woke up, when the last remnants of the morphine and sleeping injections were still making him extremely vulnerable.

But his dream had been so realistic… Erik laughed bitterly at himself.

"Oh, Charles. If you could see me now… How pathetic. What have I become, old friend?"

Shaking his head, he started pacing around his plastic prison, stretching and moving his lethargic limbs.

_I'm in control_, he was thinking._ I will get out of here someday. I will be a free man again. And I will avenge them. I will avenge every single one of them._

Breathing steadily, he closed his eyes. _The point between rage and serenity_, had said Charles.

He tried summoning something serene. Rage, he had plenty, even too much. He had meditated a lot lately, though, which had slightly improved his control over himself. But it was not enough, it was not _nearly_ enough.

Charles had believed in him, Erik remembered. Without his help, he would never have been able to unleash the most important part of his power that laid dormant in his mind.

He knew he could become even more powerful than he already was. There must be some metal _somewhere_. Not in the Pentagon obviously, not anymore. But surely there were cars, planes, utensils, _something._

Erik tried thinking of his mother, but the few and dim memories he had left of her were not strong enough anymore. He tried thinking of how proud he had felt of the Brotherhood when they had successfully rescued a dozen of mutant children in a northern facility. He tried thinking of how satisfying it had been to see that particular facility burn down to the ground.

Surreptitiously, another memory invaded this one. Erik fought hard to suppress it, but it was too strong. Despair overflowed him as he saw for the umpteenth time his comrades from the Brotherhood fall, one after the other.

Only Mystique and Azazel had been able to escape that day – and only very narrowly.

Erik, him, had been captured. Tried. And put here.

Alone.

Everyone… Everyone was gone, taken away from him. Just like his mother had been. She was the first one he had lost.

There had been so many others after that. His father. His grandparents. His uncle.

And then, Darwin. Emma. Riptide. Angel. And Azazel too, as he had been told two or three years ago.

Everyone he knew always went away, in the end.

Maybe he was cursed.

His mind was on the edge of snapping. Erik _had_ to regain control. He could be – _was_ – in control of his emotions.

"I am in control of my emotions."

If only there were metal, around him. He felt like part of his soul had been ripped away from him. Not being able to sense even just a scrap, just a nut, just the tiniest piece – it felt like not being able to breathe properly.

Brutally, he slammed his hand on the _evil_ plastic wall. He had always _hated_ plastic.

Dammit, it had been ten years, since their deaths. It didn't diminish the pain, the unfairness of it all.

And he still couldn't control his pain.

And he was alone.

A little voice in his head he didn't want to hear was whispering that Charles – _Charles_ – was not dead. Charles was still there, even though they were at odds (to say the least).

Charles had said that Erik would never be alone.

But Charles – Charles was not there at the moment. And he really was a _fool_.

But may he be damned – Erik still loved him. He loved him so much that thinking of him was even more painful than thinking of the Brotherhood.

"You could have had it all, you know", he whispered, though nobody was there to hear him.

He snorted at his own arrogance. Have what, exactly? There was nothing left. Only him. And even then, what _was_ left of him?

Erik was just a shadow of his past-self now.

He still hoped that Charles would join him, someday. That he would come and rescue him. That he would just _do_ something. Surely, Charles could not believe Erik had wanted to kill the president. He must have been able to pick his thoughts, though Erik had not noticed. But then, Charles could be sneaky.

It was silly really. If Charles had wanted to save him, wouldn't he have done it by now?

Would he?

Against all odds, a part of Erik still hoped he would.

"I know I have let you down, my friend. I know I have hurt you. But I swear, if you come for me…"

Erik didn't know what he was going to say. What, would he promise to be a good boy and not to hurt anybody ever? As if he could, after all that had happened. Deep down, he knew that if Charles asked him to give up his old ways, he wouldn't. He had made that decision a long time ago. Erik was utterly and forever broken, damaged, beyond repair.

Moreover, a whole species was at risk here. Would he sacrifice their well being for some silly love story? No. Of course not. The needs of the many _always_ outweighed the needs of the few – or the one.

_But if Charles's life was at stake, if he was dying, would you still believe that?_, was saying the little voice in his head that he didn't want to hear.

The door brusquely opened, revealing a doctor all dressed in white that was approaching along with two strong guards. He had a blue syringe in his hand.

_Morphine it is, then_.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days he had spent here, in this half-drugged state, asking himself the same old questions.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days too much.

_Please, Charles. Please. Come for me._

* * *

So, what did you think? :)


	2. Chapter 2: Titanium

Notes

What happened in 1963 and a glimpse at 1973 Charles.

**REALLY IMPORTANT: There's a torture and almost-rape situation in this chapter that might trigger some readers. So if you think you won't enjoy reading it, please don't. It was hard for me to write this scene and I completely understand if you prefer to refrain from reading it at this point.**

Oh, and just so you know... I didn't find anything relevant on the subject, but I decided that Stryker Jr (so the adamantium-I'm-crazy-I-die-pulverized-by-the-water-etc-in-X2 one) couldn't be a Major already in 1963, and made him a Captain for now. Though if you find somewhere the rank he had in 1963, I'd be happy to comply with the canon. :)

* * *

Chapter 2. Titanium

_I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose_  
_Fire away, fire away_  
_Ricochet, you take your aim_  
_Fire away, fire away_

_You shoot me down but I won't fall_  
_I am titanium_

_CIA Headquarters, 1963._

"State your name, age, country of origin."

Erik sighed minutely. Would all his life always come back to this – to some anonymous interrogation room with strange people wanting him to know who he was and where he came from?

"Please state your name, age, country of origin now," repeated the mechanical voice of a hidden recording device, somewhat louder.

"Erik Lehnsherr. 33. Germany."

He heard a door open from behind where he was seated, in a loud – and resolutely non-metallic – thud. Erik already had surmised as much: the room – the whole facility actually – seemed to be deprived of any metal. It was depressing in a way only a man used to feel the reassuring pulse of metal wherever he went could understand. It was like suddenly being rendered blind or deaf.

"Well, well, look who we have here. Hello, Mr. Lehnsherr. Or do I have to call you Magneto?"

Captain Stryker Jr. It all made sense now. Really, Erik should have known. Carefully keeping his face blank, he continued staring at the grey wall facing him.

"Oh, all right. Remain silent all you want. It won't help you much, but it's your choice and your _human_ right. Because you _are_ human, Mr. Lehnsherr, aren't you?"

Erik didn't deign to reply to the man. Stryker had been after him for a while now, trying to prove that he was not human. He knew the man was aware of his power – hence the absence of metal. Obviously, though, he wanted some verbal confirmation from Erik.

"Or… well, but maybe you aren't! Maybe you are what a certain Oxford Professor calls in his thesis a – uh – _mutant_. Now, now. That would make the matters much more… complicated, wouldn't you say? Should the same laws apply to beings utterly different from humans? What an interesting notion. Great debate in perspective. What do you think, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

Stryker was now standing directly in front of him. Erik would never truly comprehend why Stryker hated mutants so much. To be fair, though, he had to admit that he simply could not understand why _anybody_ would. Being a mutant was a gift. Mutation should be revered, feared, but never despised.

Maybe it was just instinct, an inborn reaction of repulsion when faced with the next logical step of evolution. Maybe, as Charles had once said, this was just the Neanderthal understanding that he would lose the evolutionary battle to his cousin Cro-Magnon.

Erik was abruptly brought down from his musings when the man simply said, "After all, we don't submit _chimpanzees_ to our laws and justice system."

_That's rich coming from a man who looks like one_, the mutant thought, arching a derisive eyebrow at the military man. What was it with humans, to have this constant urge to dominate and insult everything that was slightly different from them?

He snorted. "Oh, _young_ Captain Stryker. If anybody's a chimpanzee in this room, it's certainly not me."

Erik saw the glint of triumph in the Captain's eyes. "Ah, he talks! Well, what _are_ you, Lehnsherr? Just because you _look_ human doesn't mean that you _are_."

He knew that he had fallen in some kind of verbal trap, even if he had done it quite deliberately. Maybe he should have remained silent, but at the same time, he was tired of being cautious all the time. Especially with someone like Stryker who already knew everything there was to know about Erik.

"Oh, you really think you are _so_ clever, Captain," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I am a mutant. An _evolved_ human being, as it is stated in the same thesis you were quoting. But something – I don't know what, really – tells me that you already knew that. Oh, wait, that's right maybe it has something to do with your father also being with the CIA."

"All this contempt, all this anger, Erik, and here I was, thinking you only reserved it for your friends! I'm touched," he responded with a hand on his heart, faking some emotional outburst. "Oh, I can call you Erik, dear, can't I? Or do you prefer _Mutant_?"

Erik chuckled humorlessly, "And what should I call you, then? _Neanderthal_?"

Stryker's smile faltered for a split second. There was an edge to it now, something dangerous and insane that made the man look like a predator. Given the choice, though, Erik always preferred facing an angry adversary than a calm one: once triggered, anger was so easily fueled and channeled that it would inevitably lead to some mistakes on his opponent's part.

"Careful, Lehnsherr," whispered the Captain, pulling something from his vest. "I have a gun."

"Oh. Right," sneered Erik, fighting against the urge to roll his eyes again. "Is this the moment I have to pretend to be scared? Because, you know, I wouldn't want to miss my cue for our audience."

The tension radiating from the other man was almost palpable now.

"Don't play dumb with me, Lehnsherr," he groaned. "It doesn't suit you."

Erik allowed the searing disdain he felt to show on his face as he retorted, "I'm just trying to adjust to your level, Stryker."

The mutant could see the blood pulse more rapidly in Stryker's protruding temporal vein. _He is so easy to manipulate_, he thought, almost disappointed.

"Ha-ha. Aren't you a funny one, Lehnsherr," the man replied softly, his fists clenching and unclenching sporadically.

"What are you going to do, Billy? I _can_ call you Billy, dear, can't I?"

Without warning, Stryker hit Erik's jaw. Hard.

"You are quite a smartass, aren't you?" he purred close to Erik's ear. "You just love to play with fire. But you _will_ tell me what I want to know."

Slowly, appearing completely unruffled, Erik turned his head towards Stryker's. He knew some blood was oozing from his lips, and that he had some loose teeth, but he'd had it way worse than that before. He looked searchingly at the Captain's face. How much did the man _really _know? How many lives were at stake? How many mutants were in his power? Most probably, Stryker already knew enough to condemn too many of them to a horrible fate.

But Erik was not the kind of man to go down without fighting. He had endured pain in the past. The unbearable, wish-I-was-dead kind of pain. He could do it again. He _would _do it again. Rather pain – and even death – than betray his ideals, and his friends.

He wondered what Charles would think if he saw him now. He would probably be angry. Or disappointed. Yes, that sounded more like Charles, being disappointed by something Erik had done. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway.

Fighting the pain, Erik brutally spat in Stryker's face, which was only inches from his.

"In a pig's eye, Stryker."

Stryker didn't move for a few seconds. Calmly, he retreated towards the dark glass of the one-way window on Erik's right. He got a handkerchief out of his pocket, and proceeded to clean himself from Erik's spit and blood.

"I will make you talk, Lehnsherr."

His tone was deceptively calm, and Erik was immediately on his guard. Pain, fury, rage, he could take without flinching. But he had had firsthand experience with cold anger and hatred: Shaw had been particularly good at it.

It never bode well.

Stryker replaced his glasses on his nose. Unhurriedly, he walked back towards Erik, watching him intently. He took his gun in his hand, a devious smile spreading on his face.

"Why were you in Dallas on November 22, Lehnsherr?"

Without waiting for Erik's answer, he hit him again, the hard plastic of his gun brutally connecting with the mutant's jaw.

"Were you involved in the assassination of our _beloved_ President?"

Stryker punched him hard on the sternum. Erik heard something crack as sharp pain pierced his chest, but he mustered all the strength he had left to keep silent and as unperturbed as possible. At least, he could still breathe almost normally, which meant the lungs were not touched. Yet.

The military man started hitting him in earnest, making the chair he was tied to fall on the ground. Erik's head hit the concrete violently, and for a few seconds, all he could see were white dots and a blinding light.

A particularly fierce kick in the stomach brought him back to reality. Relentless, Stryker continued to beat him, filling every blow with all the hatred and madness he felt for Erik and his kind. Erik knew he was covered in blood by now, the too familiar metallic taste overwhelming in his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to reach for some metal. There had to be something _somewhere_. There just had to be. He just had to concentrate. _Rage and serenity_, he chanted in his mind. He could do it.

He had done this a thousand times. Stryker was nothing compared to Shaw. He wouldn't break him; nobody had, so far.

Well, not physically, at least.

Erik was trying to feel the metal usually throbbing under him, but he might as well have tried with plastic or wood. He realized with a start that maybe they had incapacitated him with some kind of neuronal inhibitor preventing him from using his powers. The thought was disquieting and very unnerving, to say the least.

Erik realised suddenly that Stryker had stopped kicking him. He felt himself being dragged up by the collar. Carefully, he opened his eyes and glared icily at the man holding him.

"What a sight for sore eyes, you are, Erik," Stryker said, with a mocking chuckle. "You better start talking soon before I completely rip the skin off your pretty face."

Erik couldn't help to feel a bit smug that he hadn't uttered a single sound while Stryker was beating him to a pulp. He allowed a crooked smile to reach his lips. "_Verpiss dich, Stryker!"_

The man only laughed, as he took a few steps back from Erik.

"Well, you have spirit, I'll give you that. Here is another idea: I'll shoot you in every single one of your bones until you beg me for mercy. What do you think?"

Erik snorted. "You can shoot me all you want, Stryker. I won't talk. "

"You will talk to me," stated the Captain, as he made a gesture to whoever was standing on the other side of the one-way mirror.

Erik was genuinely laughing now, shaking his head as though Stryker was some kind of slow-witted child.

"Stryker, I was detained for five years by a Nazi sympathiser who tortured and experimented on me. I went to Auschwitz. My mother was killed ruthlessly in front of me. You, of all people, won't succeed in making me talk. I've got nothing to lose. Not anymore."

It was Stryker's turn to shake his head, sighing dramatically.

"Come on, Lehnsherr. It's gonna be painful. I'll make sure of it."

With a scathing smirk, Erik looked at the military man in front of him. "Try me."

Two privates walked into the room, armed with clubs and what looked like a cat-o-nine-tails.

"Gentlemen, if you may," said Stryker, casually, as he picked a folder Erik hadn't noticed before from the table on the opposite wall.

One of the soldiers untied him from the chair, cuffing him instead to the chain (_Titanium_, realised Erik) that was hanging from the ceiling. Violently, the other one ripped his shirt from his back.

"Is that supposed to be punishment?" asked Erik, as he eyed the two privates suggestively.

"I mean it, Lehnsherr. I am going to hurt you," only replied the Captain, pretending to be distracted by the papers he was holding.

He felt each point of the cat-o-nine-tails pierce his flesh, scraping it from his back, denting his bones. He clenched his teeth ferociously, fighting hard against the agonising pain that threatened to engulf him.

"Humm. Kinky. I like that," he managed to say in a husky voice.

Another wave of pain flooded Erik, in his legs this time. Panting hard, he tried to remain standing, but he knew his knees would soon give up. He was looking at the ground, trying to steady his breath and to remain conscious. Anything – he would do anything, rather than give in to torture and pain. He was Erik Lehnsherr, _verdamm – _no, that was not quite right, not anymore.

He was Magneto.

He would not give in.

The privates kept striking him, relentless, for what felt like hours to Erik. He closed his eyes, and tried to make the world around him disappear, as Charles had taught him to.

Charles. Beautiful, idiot Charles.

_Do not give up, my friend. You're not alone._

For a second, for a moment, it felt as though _he _was there, in his mind, with him, right now. It was impossible – Erik knew that. It was illogical to hope. It was unlikely that Charles was anywhere near him.

And yet, it felt so real, that familiar mind touch, that beautiful voice, begging him, urging him to keep holding on.

_You're not alone, Erik. I am right here._

Erik felt a surge of hope and strength pour in his heart. He basked in it, he reeled in it, and he let it sink to the very marrow of his bones.

It didn't matter if it was just a figment of his imagination. It still did the trick. And deep down, Erik had to admit that there would always be an echo of Charles, no matter how hard he tried to shield himself. They had shared something too intense, too powerful to be forgotten.

Straightening his spine, Erik realised that the whip and clubs now laid discarded on his left. Stryker was slowly walking around the room, and came to place himself right in front of him. Mustering all the composure and strength he had left, Erik looked up at him.

"What? Done already? They don't have much stamina, your boys, do they?"

"Quit bragging, Lehnsherr," snapped Stryker, with some annoyance. "We both know that this is just some pointless bravado."

"I don't know how many times I'll have to tell you: I do not fear pain," croaked Erik. "Haven't since I was 16. I have learned to become a man, a strong man, a _mutant_ man, with broken bones and bleeding flesh. Pain and anger were the only companions I had, and I learned to master them rather than let myself be governed by them. _You_ know nothing about fear and pain, human. Nothing."

The man laughed quietly, shaking in head in disbelief. He reached again for the gun in his pocket and gestured to Erik with it.

"Why don't you just tell me what I want to know before I decide your life isn't worth anything to me anymore?"

It was Erik's turn to chuckle derisively.

"Beneath the helmet, there is an idea, Captain Stryker; and ideas are bulletproof."

"You're not bulletproof, mutant. I know a couple others that are, but _you_ aren't."

Erik was sick of games, sick of Stryker's little smug smile. A burning anger was fast spilling in his gut, making him pull on his titanium chains.

"Then, why don't you just kill me?" he groaned dangerously. "Stop talking about it and do it already! I'm not afraid of dying. My life is not nearly as paramount as my ideals. Others can – and will – carry on after I'm gone. My death is nothing. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few – or the one, in this case."

Stryker's quiet laugh was more infuriating than anything else. The man slowly walked around Erik, brushing the tip of his gun on his bleeding flesh. Erik couldn't help but hiss as the plastic hovered above his tattered skin.

"Oh, that's so _grand_ of you, Erik," he whispered in his ear. "So selfless. Now, there's no need to pretend here. I know you, you're like me: a practical man."

Stryker's gun was slowly moving across Erik's back, lingering in the wounds, pressing painfully in the deepest ones. Grinding his teeth, Erik swallowed and tried to remain composed. He had to act as though he was on top of his game. It was the only way to win something with men like Stryker.

"And my usefulness hasn't expired just yet, has it?"

The gun was getting lower and lower, making Erik cringe. He'd always had difficulty coping with being humiliated. He didn't like at all where this was going. Erik was a man of action: he preferred physical pain indefinitely over psychological torture. He had had enough of the latter when he was young.

Stryker's gun stopped right above his butt cheeks.

"How do you think it would feel, Lehnsherr, to be shot through the arse?" he susurrated in a low growl, even closer than before. Erik could feel his sickening breath on his ear. "I heard wounds in the lower back are the most painful ones. You would beg me to kill you before you bleed to death, wouldn't you? You would beg me to finish you quickly."

Fighting hard against his nausea, Erik tried to laugh weakly.

"Oh, but I know you won't kill me, Stryker, that's the thing. You want to, of that, I have no doubt. But as you said, you are a practical man."

Stryker was right behind him now, pressing his legs and lower body against Erik's. He moved the gun up to his head.

"I could kill you. One less of that mutant vermin on this planet. Good riddance."

Erik was feeling sicker than he ever had in his life. He could feel the other man's flesh digging in his own, invading his personal space, claiming his body. He knew Stryker had him completely powerless. He could do anything to him now, and nobody would say anything. Nobody would know.

Erik hated it.

_Charles would know instantly_, he thought, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it formed. Thinking of Charles earlier had helped him, but right now, it would only make him sicker and more ashamed. He fought the urge to kick Stryker back, tried to appear as unruffled as ever as he leaned back on Stryker, closing the space between their bodies.

He turned slightly his head towards him. "But you still need me, or I wouldn't be talking to you right now. Empty threats are not very effective, generally, you know. Especially on me."

Their faces were only inches apart. The disgust Erik was feeling was threatening to overwhelm him, but he kept still.

"Maybe you are right," murmured Stryker. "I won't kill you. Not yet, anyway."

He pulled Erik's hair abruptly, and made him look directly at him, an intrusive finger tracing his jaw, lightly rubbing his stubble.

"But it doesn't mean I cannot make you wish I had."

Erik looked back at the man with undisguised distaste. _So you want to play this game_, he thought icily._ I will play along, Stryker. You sick bastard. _He exhaled slowly, letting his breath brush on Stryker's lips. He licked his parched lips, eying the effect it was having on the man overpowering him.

"Hurt me. Fuck me if you want. I won't talk."

The tension lay thick between the two men. As he stared back at his captor, Erik wondered what would happen next. A few minutes went by in a heavy silence, only ruptured by Erik's ragged breath. They were standing on the edge of a knife.

Stryker suddenly pushed Erik away, who barely contained his sigh of relief.

"As if I would ever lower myself to do that. You're nothing more than an animal to me, Lehnsherr."

"Then, fire away, Stryker. What's holding you back?"

"Don't tempt me, animal. No dodging those with your ability this time. Though, I reckon you prefer to divert bullets in your friends' backs, from what I heard, don't you?"

Erik's breath caught in his throat. If he had been angry before, it was nothing compared to the blinding rage that came rushing through his gut, unstoppable.

"_How dare you_ –"

"Aha," said Stryker, with a triumphant grin. "How dare I what? Mention Cuba? You know, I think I've found your pressure point, at last. Shall we talk about that Oxford Professor again, Erik? Huh? Shall we talk about Xavier and his school?"

Pulling on his chains, Erik turned around to face Stryker.

"Xavier has nothing to do with this," he hissed.

"Or _au contraire_ maybe he has everything to do with this. After all, he is a powerful telepath. Maybe he sneaked in your mind and implanted some ideas about killing the president. How can you be sure?"

Erik snorted. "If you think that the mighty Charles Xavier would do that, then you clearly do not know much about him. He would not do it."

"So I guess the helmet you are wearing is just a costume of some kind, then?"

Erik hesitated. Of course, he knew Charles could do it, that he had the power to implant a thought in someone's mind. But how could he have, with the helmet? And even if Erik hadn't worn the helmet for the past year, the thought of Charles doing something like that was so foreign and absurd that it was almost laughable.

"Charles would _never_ do that. The helmet has a completely different purpose."

Erik knew he had said something wrong when he caught something akin to victory pierce in Stryker's eyes.

"Oh, it's Charles, then, is it? Quite the pair, you two were making, I dare say. Such a shame. A good friend, Dr. Xavier was before you broke up – oh, _sorry_, I meant, before you left because of a divergence of opinion."

Erik felt as though someone had just poured a whole bucket of ice-cold water on him. Had they been that obvious that a CIA agent they barely had talked to could see through them so easily? Had they been so blinded by each other that they had actually forgotten that people were watching? Had they been the last one to understand that there was more than friendship in their complex relationship? _Well, it certainly looks like it_.

But Erik knew better than fall for the bait and reply anything to the unveiled accusation of a man who had almost raped him not even ten minutes ago.

"I have not killed the president, Stryker, and you know it very well, I think."

"Do I, now?" retorted the Captain, cheerfully. "But you were there! Weren't you? What were you doing in Dallas, Lehnsherr?"

Erik only looked at Stryker, arching a bloody eyebrow.

"Well, now, Erik. Even you have to admit that your presence there was quite suspicious."

"I did not _kill_ the president."

"Then how do you explain the bullet curving and hitting the president _exactly_ where it would have killed him?"

"Your men arrested me before I could divert it completely!"

Stryker's grinned became wider.

"So you do admit to having manipulated the bullet, then? The very same bullet that was used in the President's assassination?"

"_Verdammt_, man! I was only trying to save him!"

"But while doing this, unfortunately, you ended up killing him."

Bitterly, Erik turned his head away from the military man. His body was aching so much, and yet, it was nothing compared to what he felt inside.

"Oh, silent again, now, are we? Maybe instead we should talk about the missiles you turned on the US army in Cuba then?"

"I will _not_ talk about what happened in Cuba to you or any of your dogs, Stryker."

"Touchy subject, is it? Still feeling guilty about that bullet that put your boyfriend in a wheelchair?"

Erik clenched his teeth, fighting hard against his impulse to answer something that would give away more than he wanted.

"What happens in the Professor's life now is none of my concern, _sir_."

From the carnivorous grin that appeared on Stryker's face, it was obviously the wrong thing to say as well.

"Very well, _Mister_ Lehnsherr. Then, you won't have any problems if I decide to call on Charles Xavier instead. As you cannot seem to be bothered by the telepath's life anyway…"

Cold dread made Erik's breath hitch.

"Xavier was never involved in any of this," he spat angrily. "Leave him out of it."

Stryker continued to smile manically, clasping his hand in front of himself with delight.

"But we just _have_ to know whether he was controlling you or not, my dear!"

It was all wrong. Everything was going all wrong. Panic started rising in Erik's chest, though he repressed it as much as he could.

"He could not manipulate me. I made sure of it –"

"Yes, yes," cut Stryker, wavering his hand dismissively. "We know. Very handy _artefact_, that helmet of yours, isn't it? But what if that charming Professor Xavier made you _think_ you had the helmet on all this time? What if you've been manipulated from the beginning? What if everything that has happened only did in your head? How can you be _sure_, Erik? How can you _ever_ be sure?"

"It's – It cannot – I don't –" he sputtered, than closed his mouth abruptly. Inhaling deeply, Erik tried not to let himself be manipulated by the Captain's strategy. More steadily, he went on, "I am sure. I trust him."

"How touching," retorted the man, with obvious disdain. "You know very well he _could_ have done it, though. Charles Xavier is a powerful man, more dangerous than he lets on."

"Charles would never harm anybody willingly."

"But he _could_," finished Styrker, pointing his finger at Erik. "And that's what makes him weak in your eyes, isn't it? That he has the power but won't use it? That he won't fight?"

Erik narrowed his eyes as the man nodded at one of the privates still standing behind him.

"Maybe we should just go get him and ask him, what do you think?"

Erik closed his eyes. No. This could not be happening. If they had Charles…

"You won't succeed that way," he replied, shaking his head, desperately trying to find something to convince the Captain. "Xavier is not your man. He will always turn the other cheek. He will always put the life of others before his. You won't succeed."

Stryker had walked back towards his prisoner. He caressed Erik's jaw with his thumb, making him look up at him.

"Oh, Erik., you silly man," he susurrated, with a nasty smirk. "We _always_ succeed."

"You won't succeed in taking Charles Xavier down, believe me," murmured Erik, dangerously. "Not as long as I am alive."

Utterly unimpressed, Stryker caressed the mutant's hair. The touch burnt Erik more than any of the whiplashes of the cat-o'-nine-tails had.

"He is only a telepath, Erik. And we do have a way of rendering him completely harmless."

"The helmet –" started the mutant.

"Oh, but I'm not talking about the helmet, dear," abruptly cut Stryker, cupping his face with both hands. "I'm talking about you."

_Westchester, 1973_.

Charles didn't know at first what woke him up. He tried turning his head, but winced, the throbbing making him dizzy and lightheaded. He opened his eyes, slowly, and tried to look at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was blocked by an empty scotch bottle, which prompted another wave of pain and sickness as he remembered why he had finished it the night before.

Maybe he had overdone it, this time. Slightly. Just slightly.

"Bloody hell."

A wave of heat overwhelmed him suddenly, leaving him sweaty and uncomfortable. That's when he registered that not only was he still fully dressed, but that he also had slept under what seemed to consist in every single sheets and bed coverings that existed in Westchester. He got rid of them as quickly as he could, fighting the growing nausea.

It was a lost cause.

"Oh no. No, no, no…"

Forgetting his headache, he jumped out of the bed and ran towards the bathroom.

He could remember a time when waking up like this meant he had had a great night with friends, overdoing it just because, well, they could; celebrating the end of yet another term or its beginning (or just any moment of it, really). How far away that era appeared to be now... A lifetime ago it seemed; before Vietnam, before the Moon landing, before Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, before Nixon, before JFK's assassination – before Cuba.

Before Erik.

After a while, his stomach finally calming down, Charles sat back on the marble floor. He caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall and chuckled humourlessly. He was wearing some old winter pyjamas that probably belonged to his father, long since worn out. Even though it was summer, Charles had put his old plaid bathrobe on top of it. There were stains of dubious origin on his pants and shirt. He hadn't shaved in weeks. His hair was growing much longer than he ever had it, tangled and messy. He couldn't remember the last time he had washed them – or even just washed himself, for all that mattered. And this was the great Charles Xavier, distinguished Oxford graduate, Professor of Genetics. There wasn't much left of the perfectly groomed and sophisticated man he once had been – if anything left at all.

What a mess he had become.

When the nausea had receded almost completely, Charles stood up and reached for the aspirin bottle in the cabinet. Splashing some water in his face, he was starting to feel a bit more like a human being. Without another glance at his reflection, he went out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Now that he could understand it, his alarm clock was saying it was only 8:23 am.

Well, that's not as though he had anything planned today. Or ever. Pushing aside all covers, he decided that he could indeed use a bit more sleep.

Sleep was always better than thinking, after all.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter coming soon, welllll, soonish, welllll, it's mostly written really, welllll I still need to finish it. (I've been watching way too much Doctor Who lately.)  
What did you think? Let me know! And most importantly, live long and prosper!


	3. Chapter 3: Waking Up

So. I'm still alive! I'm sorry it has been so long. I have been working a lot on this story since I've last updated a chapter. The next chapter is almost finished, actually. But I'm a perfectionist, and I always work and rework and rework a chapter until I'm fully satisfied with it.

This one, actually, I am not even sure I'm quite satisfied with it yet. But, hell, I decided that it might be best that I just publish it and get feedback instead of just reading it and reading it again for the next two weeks. So please, any constructive comment will be so welcome! Thanks to all the ones who took the time to kudos or comment on it!

Now, I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy and may you live long and prosper! :)

* * *

Chapter 3. Waking Up

_We don't lose_  
_We might bruise_  
_Yeah but we'll rain fire on ya till you're playing_  
_All of your cards_  
_We're waking up_

\- OneRepublic

_I feel these limbs have grown cold to numb._  
_Take a good look at what I've become_  
_There's a hole in my chest_  
_And I don't think it's leaving room for anyone_

\- PVRIS

_CIA Headquarters, 1963_.

Erik realised he had fallen asleep, despite his injuries, despite his anger, when he was brutally woken up by a soldier. He had lost almost all sensation in his arms, still tied up by the titanium chain to the ceiling. He tried putting some weight on his legs, only to be rewarded with unbearable pain that shot through all his body. Inhaling harshly, he tried to assess his injuries. Both his legs felt stiff and weak, which meant they were most probably broken. He was sure he had cracked ribs, and, if his throbbing headache was anything to go by, a concussion.

Rolling his shoulder carefully, Erik repressed a wince. His back was a bloody mess, the deep wounds aching dully as the torn flesh was congealing raggedly on his bones. He didn't know how much time had passed; enough for the blood to dry and the adrenaline to go down. The whole situation felt uncomfortably familiar. How many times had he awoken in Shaw's laboratory, covered in scars, smeared in blood, sometimes not his own –

_Not now_, he told himself, fighting back heaps of memories of the War, of Shaw, of Auschwitz.

"Drink."

Erik's attention snapped back to the soldier, who was looking at him with a mix of open curiosity – and something else that Erik couldn't quite define.

"Hello? Can you hear me, Lehnsherr? Or do I have to force-feed this to you?"

The soldier was holding a cup of something visibly hot in front of him.

"What are you going to do if I don't?" challenged Erik, with all the contempt he could muster.

The private looked him, almost pensively. "Well, you don't have to, of course. But then, I wasn't exactly asked to bring you this. You could show a bit more gratitude, you know."

Erik gaped at the man, who was still holding the cup.

"You mean, _you_ decided to bring me something to drink? Against Stryker's orders?"

"You're quite perceptive," the man replied with a smirk, as though Erik was some dimwitted child.

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Why? Why would you do that?"

The soldier only shrugged, still smirking. "You could say that I have my reasons."

He lifted the cup once again, gesturing to Erik to drink. The mutant's lips were so parched that they had cracked, adding fresh blood to the one covering his face. He tried to smell the liquid, but his nose was most probably broken, and thus preventing him to breathe through it.

"It's tea, Lehnsherr. I'm afraid it would have been more difficult to smuggle anything else in."

Nodding, Erik took a careful sip. The warm beverage felt heavenly to his dry mouth and throat. He hadn't realised until now how thirsty he had been. He drained the rest of the cup in one gulp.

"Easy, easy, Lehnsherr. There's not much more. And I don't know when – if – you'll be able to have some more."

As the soldier refilled the cup, Erik asked, "And what do you think Stryker will do when he learns about what you did?"

Bringing the cup to Erik's lips once more, the man raised an eyebrow.

"Well, obviously, this room is bugged and taped. So, well, I dealt with that. I just replaced the last thirty minutes for both sound and film with a loop. Nobody will ever know I was here at all. It was quite easy, really, as everybody is quite busy at the moment. Oh, and Stryker either won't be coming back for a bit. I heard that he was with someone he believes will make you talk in no time."

Erik snorted. "Torture doesn't work on me. He should know better than to keep trying. I'm not going to break. I'd rather die. I thought I had made my point quite adamantly the first time."

"I think, though, that he is not planning to torture _you_, Magneto."

Erik blinked, suddenly wary. "Who are you? And why are you telling me all this?"

The man smiled mischievously.

"Finally, you are starting to ask the right questions. Gosh, Erik, for someone so brilliant, you can be so slow sometimes. Who could I possibly be, hum? Putting a loop on the cameras, disregarding Stryker's orders, giving you tea?"

The young man's face transformed in Erik's with a wave of blue scales.

"Maybe I'm you. Who knows? Maybe I'm your conscience coming to rescue you. Or maybe I'm Stryker himself."

Stryker's features replaced those of Erik's, in another surge of blue.

"_Mystique_."

"Hello to you too, Magneto. I have to say, I thought you would see through my disguise as soon as I walked in. I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or an insult."

"Well, I've got to say, you did a pretty good impression of one of Stryker's dogs. Calling me _Lehnsherr_, of all things. Don't ever do it again," he warned her, half-seriously.

She rolled her eyes, as she reverted to her natural blue form. "Right, okay. I'll try to keep that in mind, next time I risk my life to break into your cell to bring you tea."

Erik tried to move towards her, but only managed to cry out in pain. Gasping, Mystique grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him as best as she could. She inhaled sharply as she got a glimpse of his tattered back. "_Oh my god_, Erik. What did these bastards do to you?"

He chuckled weakly. "You don't catch me at my best, I have to admit."

Softly, she cradled his face with her beautiful blue hands, concern and anger written all over her face.

"I can see that. I wish I could rip the eyeballs of the men who did this to you, Erik. I wish I could make them _suffer_."

Erik winced, feeling his back wounds reopen as he moved his shoulders. "_Schatz_, don't mistake me: it's really good to see you, it really is. But what are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. I told you to get away, to escape, to leave the country. You disobeyed my orders."

She looked at him in disbelief. "You seriously think that I would ever be able to watch them take you away and just flee the country, without turning back? Really?"

He shook his head minutely. "No. I guess I don't. But how I wish you would."

"Magneto. I could never willingly leave your side. You very well know that."

Erik was suddenly terribly exhausted.

"I know," he sighed, letting his head fall down on his chest. "But still, Mystique, what are you _doing_ here? You can't be here to rescue me; obviously, you would have told me at once."

"I wish I could help you escape, Erik. But I'm afraid – I'm afraid there isn't much I can do alone."

Erik snapped his head back up. "What's going on, Mystique? What are you not telling me?"

He saw her hesitate, as she looked at him almost self-consciously. "You probably haven't heard anything from outside for a while now. Things – things are not really going well for the Brotherhood."

"What do you mean?" he all but shouted.

She swallowed, her voice strangled by the tears she was trying not to shed. "Angel has disappeared. And so has Emma. We think they might have been kidnapped."

Erik closed his eyes. _No. This cannot be happening._

"It's only me and Azazel now, I'm afraid," she continued.

His head was turning quite fast now. He felt like being sick, but he knew it would only aggravate his condition. Fighting off the vertigo and the bile mounting up his throat, he tried to make sense of what his first and most loyal general was telling him, at the risk of her life.

"What about Riptide? Banshee? The new recruits?"

"They – They were injured in Dallas," she managed to answer. "When they tried to rescue you. Azazel and I, we – we did everything we could but – but –"

As Mystique tears fell down her face, the air in the room suddenly became unbearably thicker, as though charged with electricity. Erik's power thrummed under his skin, looking desperately for anything – _anything _– containing metal. He felt as though he was going to explode of rage, wrath and vengeance, while his whole world was crumbling to pieces.

"Bastards. These fucking _bastards_. They will pay. For every single one of them. I will make them pay. Even if I have to wait years. Decades. I will. Make. Them. PAY!"

Mystique wiped her eyes angrily. "Don't worry, Magneto. I'll start for you as soon as I get out of here."

His rage receded as his gaze fell on her. She was shivering uncontrollably, from despair and anger, fighting hard against the sobs that were making her chest heave.

Softly, he said, "I will always worry for you, Mystique."

She looked up from the ground, a sad shadow passing through her eyes. "So will I."

She went back to the table to grab the cup and fill it with what was left of the tea. Slowly, Erik drank the rest of the now cold beverage.

"You could have asked Charles," he blurted out.

Mystique froze. "What?"

"You could have asked Charles. To help rescue me. To protect our people."

She turned around and put back the cup on the table. "I almost did. But it was too late. So I didn't. And well, he didn't exactly come forward either, you know."

"Did you – talk to him?"

She glanced back at Erik. She sighed. "I did. He had tried to contact me for a while, before – before all of this."

Erik inhaled sharply. "I see."

There was a pregnant pause. Mystique was frowning slightly as she watched Erik intently. Unwavering, he looked back at her. She crossed her arms in front of her, leaning on the table.

"I didn't ask, though. For you, for your rescue. I didn't ask Charles."

Erik didn't reply anything for a while. "Why not?" he simply asked.

Mystique snorted. "You really think he'd have come? That he would have listened? He'd probably say that you are where you deserve to be, anyway."

"Charles might be an idiot wanting to claim the moral high grounds, but he's nothing if not smart. We've had our – misunderstandings – but even he knows that he couldn't possibly leave a mutant – any mutant – in the hands of the CIA. It wouldn't be logical."

She was shaking her head, a sad smile forming on her deep blue lips.

"Where you are concerned, Erik, I don't think Charles has ever had much objectivity. And he made a point not to mention you, when we talked. So I didn't tell him anything. He'll know soon enough."

Erik could feel his eyes prickling. He turned his head sharply. No, he wouldn't cry in front of her, he thought. He wouldn't.

He felt a wave of despair threatening to overflow his mind, his body, his soul. He was so powerless. So weak. So alone.

It hit him with full force: how he was so absolutely and utterly alone. _You're not alone_, Charles had said on that damned night – had it only been two years ago? It might as well have been a lifetime away.

He coughed in a meek attempt to regain his composure before he lost it completely.

"You have to go, Mystique," he choked. "Stryker will come back sooner or later, I'm sure."

"Erik–", she started, coming towards him.

"Just – go," he snarled tersely.

Mystique opened her mouth to protest some more, but closed it abruptly. Grabbing fiercely the thermos, she walked towards the door. A hand on the doorknob, she looked back at the broken man that he had now become.

"Before I go, there is something else I have to tell you."

"Mystique," he growled. "Do you really think–"

"I'm pregnant."

Erik gaped at her. Of all the things he had expected her to say, this was probably the last. She was looking at the ground, her feet twisting nervously.

He started thinking furiously. A burst of something – was it hope or maybe _dread _– was clawing at his heart. _It – No, it couldn't be – Could it?_

As though she could sense where his train of thoughts were leading, she looked at him with an apologetic smile. "No, Erik. It's Azazel's."

The penny dropped. Painfully, it seemed. "Oh."

"Yeah."

_So that's how it is now_, he thought. Well, at least, she had somebody to protect her. Maybe _he_ would succeed where he had so blatantly failed.

"Does Charles know?" he asked quietly.

Mystique shook her head once. "Nope."

He frowned. "Does _Azazel_ know?"

Her smile was almost sheepish now. "Nope. You are the first one."

Erik chuckled humorlessly. "Well. Congratulations are in order then."

She took a step closer to him. "Erik, don't be like that–"

He continued, dismissing her intervention. "I'd ask to be godfather, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be much of one for the next couple of years. If ever."

She took his face between her soft hands, brushing her fingers on the fresh scars that were marring it. "Erik. Of course, you will be the godfather. And you will be a great one too, no matter what happens. Not sure about me as a mother, though. _Gosh_, Erik. Me. With a child."

He could see how afraid and unsure she was in her beautiful and expressive eyes. She was so young, and yet, she had grown so much in just over a year. She was not the self-conscious girl she had been then; not anymore. She was a woman, and a fierce and magnificent one at that, too. He had a small smile at the thought of a little blue baby with scales in her arms. "You're going to be such a great mother, Schatz. I'm sure of it."

She blushed slightly, her eyes dropping to the floor. "You would be a great father too, you know."

"Would I?", he asked, as casually as he could.

She grinned fondly. "Definitely."

"I could still be. Someday." He hated how vulnerable he sounded.

Caressing the stubble on his jaw, she smiled sadly. "We've already had this discussion, Erik. I love you. I always will. But I'm in love with Azazel, now. And _he_ can actually love me back."

"I did love you, Mystique," he rasped, as tears glistened in his grey eyes.

She looked deeply into them. She brushed his tears away delicately, as though he was made of glass. "You might have. In your own way. But we both know that it was not enough. It never would have been."

Clenching his jaw – _verdammt, how it hurt_ – he tried to disengage from the blue girl's touch.

"_You_ would have been enough."

She turned his head sharply back to hers. "No. I wouldn't have. Because your heart will always be his."

Biting his lip, Erik looked at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for being unable to give her what she had every right to claim. "I tried. I tried so hard to forget him."

"I know."

Licking his lips, he nudged her gently away. "Go. Please. Leave me alone. Let me be. Go and avenge us. Make our kind thrive. Make me so proud. You deserve to have a good life, away from this – from me. Please, go."

She took his head between both her hands, bringing their foreheads together. "Alright. But promise me that you'll fight back. That you'll survive. Live. Fight. Please. Promise me."

"I will. I promise. But please, I'm begging you. Go. Do it for me."

She looked searchingly one last time in his iron-coloured eyes. Then, abruptly, she kissed him. It was not a gentle or tender kiss. It was desperate, filled with anguish, and pain, and bitterness. Erik felt blood pour in his mouth, the tart and metallic tang overpowering all taste and smell.

Then, as abruptly as she had appeared, Mystique was gone.

And Erik was alone once more.

_Westchester, 1973_.

Charles woke up with a start barely three hours later. He was dimly aware of Hank talking to someone downstairs. Out of habit, he tried to probe the stranger with his mind – and winced. Even on good days – a rare occurrence lately – the serum felt like a fortress enclosing his mind. Trying to use his ability under its influence was akin to run without slowing down into a brick wall: it was painful, if not downright stupid.

With a hangover, it felt like having said wall fall over himself after slamming in it.

He didn't even know why he had tried to find out who was bothering Hank. It's not as though he really cared. From time to time, they would have someone coming down here, a parent or a friend of a former pupil or teacher. Some were angry, some were desperate; some were looking for answers. But every time, Hank would turn them down, explaining that the Professor was no longer here. He would say that nobody lived here anymore except himself, that he was deeply sorry, but that, really, he didn't know anything. Some of them insisted, but Hank was firm: the School was closed. It was over.

It had been for years now. _Years_.

Unexpected noise was coming from the hall – which was unusual. Glass breaking, muffled thumping and roaring – and yes, definitely two kinds of shouting. What on earth was going on down there?

Grunting, he managed to get out of bed.

"Professor!" was yelling Hank.

With a sigh, he headed for the hall, hastening his pace a little.

"Hank, what's going on here?" he asked the young man when he reached the top of the staircase.

"Professor?" asked a foreign voice, though just faintly familiar.

_Oh, there we go again_, Charles thought, with some hardly concealed annoyance. "Please, don't call me that."

"You know this guy?" asked a bewildered Hank.

A very much _hanging upside down from the century-old chandelier_ bewildered Hank, Charles noticed when he reached the staircase landing.

"Yeah, he looks… slightly familiar. Get off the bloody chandelier, Hank!"

Blushing furiously, the young scientist complied self-consciously.

"You can walk?" asked the stranger, visibly taken aback.

Oh, how Charles regretted having left his bed at that precise moment. Rubbing his eyes in utter irritation, he slowly started going down the steps again.

"You're a perceptive one," he replied, not even trying to hide the sarcasm dripping from his words.

He gave the strange man a quick onceover. He was quite tall, and _vey _bulky, with a kind of harsh confidence quietly oozing from him. You could see the hard lines of his highly-defined muscles through his clothes. The man was definitely good looking and built like a Greek god, but there was an edge to his persona that betrayed a troubled – and probably very unstable – mind.

"I thought Erik…" the man started saying, looking more and more confused by the minute.

"Which makes it slightly perplexing that you managed to miss our sign on the way in," he cut abruptly.

Oh, no. No. There was no way – _no way – _that Charles would allow this conversation to even just broach the delicate subject of Erik. He was resolutely _not_ discussing Erik with a complete stranger, especially one who seemed to know way too much already about his involvement in Charles's life.

"This is a private property, my friend, I'm going to ask him to ask you to leave," he continued, as sternly as he could manage.

He was visibly not very convincing, as the man only snorted and shook his head instead of complying.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't do that because, uh… because I was sent here for you."

Oh, bloody hell. Couldn't people leave him alone already? Who _on earth_ still wanted anything to do with Charles? It's not as though he was doing anything reprehensible or controversial anymore. In fact, he was quite pointedly not doing anything partly because he wanted people to leave him the hell alone.

"Well, tell whoever it was that sent you that I'm... busy," he retorted.

But the stranger only chuckled a little, visibly finding the situation unbearably funny.

"Well, that's gonna be a little tricky," he continued. "Because the person who sent me was you."

Charles opened his mouth to reply something snarky, but was cut short in his train of thoughts when the meaning of what the tall man had just implied hit home. He blinked a couple of times. _What?_

"What?" asked Charles, just for the sake of saying _something_. He lowered himself on the steps of the massive staircase, suddenly trying to evaluate if the reason that the man looked familiar was because he was one of these deranged serial killers he had seen on the news a couple days ago.

"About fifty years from now."

_Well, I have to give it to him,_ Charles admitted, impressed despite the strangeness of the situation, _I don't think anybody ever tried that one before._

"About fifty years from now? As in the future 'fifty years from now'?"

The man nodded.

"I sent you from the future?" repeated Charles, just to make sure he was not imagining this whole conversation. _This has to be some kind of sick prank._

"Yeah," confirmed the stranger.

_Oh, for heaven's sake. This is just plain ridiculous_

Charles staggered as he got up, too angry to care how unsteady and crazy he looked.

"Piss off!" he spit, as he moved towards the first floor once again. _I shouldn't have come down in the first place._

The man urgently took a step forward as he barked, "If you had your powers you'd know I was telling the truth."

Charles froze. _How…?_

"How do you know I don't have my…? Who are you?"

But the man simply shrugged. "I told you."

Charles could think of only of one type of people that had access to the kind of secrets that nobody was supposed to know about. Hell, in this particular case, only two people were aware of it at all.

"Are you CIA?"

"No."

_Well, this is a surprise. And maybe a bit unsettling_, thought Charles, raising a dubious eyebrow.

"You've been watching me?" he asked, suspicious.

It would be quite disturbing if he said yes, thought Charles.

"I know you, Charles. We've been friends for years. I know your powers came when you were nine. I know you thought you were going crazy when it started, all the voices in your head. And it wasn't until you were twelve that you realized all the voices were in everyone else's head. Do you want me to go on?"

_Okay,_ he thought. _Definitely creepy._

"I never told anyone that," whispered Charles.

"Not yet, no. But you will," answered the man, with poise.

Okay. Now, Charles was definitely going facing the alternative… Well, it was crazier, wasn't it? Therefore, logic dictated that he was losing his mind, he rationalized. Could there truly be a chance that this was not just a figment of his imagination?

"All right, you've piqued my interest," Charles slowly responded, still skeptical. "What do you want?"

The stranger looked at him hopefully, though unyieldingly, as he said, "We have to stop Raven. I need your help. We need your help."

Okay. So maybe Charles _was _going crazy after all. Maybe this was just some big elaborated plot coming from his subconscious.

"I think I'd like to wake up now," he sighed bitterly, as he walked away towards his office.

Charles needed some scotch. And he needed it now. Badly. He didn't care that he was still hangover. Or that it was not even noon yet. This was too much to take in, too quickly. His mind was hurting too much. He had to numb it before attempting to process anything else.

"What does she have to do with this?" he dimly heard Hank asking, before closing his office door.

His hands were shaking as he poured himself a drink. He gulped it so fast it burned his throat, but he basked in the pain. He filled his glass for the second time.

Staring straight in front of him was the portrait of his late mother. Even as a picture, she still looked as though she was glaring disapprovingly at him. God knew she had never been in a position to judge his drinking: hers had always been quite exceptionally worse than his. Even now.

Though, admittedly, he was getting closer to it every day. How ironic.

From a very early age, Charles had learned one thing from his mother: being underestimated is both the best and safest asset one can have.

Charles had always considered himself to be better than her – and not only because of his mutation. She was a very intelligent woman, brilliant even; but Charles was something else. He had always been careful to tone down his results during aptitude tests, though: just enough to be classified as a highly intelligent person rather than a genius. He was standing out of the crowd enough already just by birthright; being born a Xavier would do that to a person, unfortunately.

There was a time when Charles had thought that nothing could shatter his bulletproof mental barriers. But now… Cynically, he held up his glass to her image. _To you, O Mother. Thank you for bringing to this world yet another twofaced and useless drunk in the Very Great and Messed up House of Xavier. Cheers._

Charles remembered the time before Raven had become his sister. He was just a kid then, but he always had been a perceptive and precocious one. How could he ever forget the nights he would wake up to his mother shattering glasses and empty bottles at his father's picture? How could he forget her crying, and her cursing, and her yelling?

Oh, he remembered well her bitter anger and cutting tone when she would see him, saying how his father had died because of Charles. How _he_ was the reason they were all so unhappy. And if he dared to cry then, she would hit him so fiercely and so thoroughly with words as much as with her hands that he quickly learned to pretend to be sleeping in his room no matter how scary the wailing and the shattering became.

Because, in the morning, he knew Mother would put her pristine, well-mannered and cold mask back on and act as though nothing had ever happened. Good-naturedly, she would admonish him for the bruises that she had made herself the night before, accusing him of being careless and clumsy.

Then, there were also these other nights when Charles would wake up with a start – only to find his mother at his bedside, crying and watching him. She would start profusely apologizing about how she was a poor mother to Charles, about how he deserved so much better than this, about how she loved him and always would. The young and scared boy that he was would try his best to comfort her and deny what she was saying. Naively, he had believed that he could help her, change her. Sometimes, she would tell him how much he looked like his father, how he would have been proud of Charles, how sad it was that he would never live to see his son become a wonderful man. He would hug her fiercely and promise her to protect her and to be a good boy. When she would fall asleep beside him, the young Charles couldn't help but fight slumber as much as he could. He didn't want to fall asleep because he was scared that if he did, he wouldn't remember any of it in the morning – and that Mother would be gone. It was pointless, of course, because he always fell asleep at some point during the night.

And of course, when he woke up, she was always gone.

She would put her cold and unyielding mask even more tightly on the mornings after her tearful outbursts.

It didn't take long for Charles to understand that he had to develop a mask of the same kind if he wanted to get through childhood relatively unscathed.

That had been before Kurt and Cain had come along. He shivered at the thought.

_No_. Charles would not think of Cain. Not right now. Not ever, if he could prevent it. It would shatter him completely. His control was already compromised enough as it was, dwelling on the past would only aggravate the situation.

Thank God he had had Raven to grow up with. He didn't know how he would have gotten through his teenage years without her. Honestly.

_Oh, Raven._ How he missed her. What a fool he had been with her. An arrogant and self-righteous arse.

Charles quickly drank the rest of his glass. He knew it wouldn't be long before he was due for another injection, but he would take care of it soon enough. Closing his eyes, he let the dim numbness give him a little composure. He knew he would have to face the two others any moment now.

And he really didn't want them to see him crying.

* * *

So, what did you think? :)


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